


Bite the Bullet, or Bare the Blow

by gliding_sugars



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: M/M, Slow Burn, Soft sometimes, Suicidal Thoughts, sad boys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2019-10-23 02:16:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17674508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gliding_sugars/pseuds/gliding_sugars
Summary: Michael Avila, a 25 year old veteran, is thrust into an unforgiving world of bloodshed and survival without warning. After the murder of his wife and kidnapping of his son, Daniel, he's willing to do anything to get him back. So, he hires a snarky, quick-witted mercenary. Now, he just has to learn to deal with him, at least until they find Daniel.





	1. No One Ever Told Me...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "...that grief felt so like fear." C.S Lewis

He stood in the road, pistol hanging limply in his hand, threatening to fall to the ground. He stared up at the sky, the sun just beginning to rise. The mixture of milky blush and violet and the highlight of the remaining sliver of the moon made his heart jolt, memories welling to the surface and spilling down his face. His jaw hung open, shallow gasps misting before his face, disappearing into the early morning air. The cold burned his gums, hurt his teeth, and he relished in it. His gaze moved from the sky to his surroundings. He watched the barren trees begin to stir with the coming breeze, the limbs crackling. The sound reminded him of bones clicking against each other. The grass, long dead, was dry and and he thought of the static bad reception would bring. Of course, that was… before. When the only weapon he needed wasn’t truly necessary, locked in the safe under their bed, even though it made her nervous. When the sky being clear like this made them want to go to the park. When they were two smiling, giddy idiots and they were happy.

A noise shocked him back to reality and before he realized it, his hands had tightened on the gun and it was aimed in Dogmeat’s face. His sweet, brown-eyed, panting face. His head tilted in confusion and Michael nearly screamed in frustration. He stormed away from the dog, hearing him follow immediately, and thought back to the past few days.

_The frigid temperatures making him gasp, teeth chattering and heart fracturing. The tears falling without him realizing, the choked sob escaping, echoing off the metal walls of his containment pod. Her shattered scream, those weak cries, the gunshot ringing in his ears. Smashing his numb hands against the glass until they bled, screaming until his voice was raw. Barely having time to look that man in the face, barely seeing his blue hands turning red before he was unconscious again, breath forcing out of his lungs as his vision went white._

_The shock of waking up again, choking on air, as he tumbled out onto the freezing concrete. Dragging himself over to her, body aching as it came back to life. How his voice sounded so broken as he slammed on the door of her pod, yanking the lever nearby, impatient and slowly emptying. Reaching out to touch her, recoiling when her skin didn’t register on his numbed fingertips. Covered in frost, green eyes hazy and lifeless, a frozen tear halfway down her cheek. Backing away, tripping on his stiff limbs._

 

He could barely breathe, even now, almost a week later. Once he met up with Codsworth, he hadn’t bothering leaving his crumbling house, curled up against the wall of his son’s room, chin on his knees and tears on the backs of his hands. Starving, dehydrated, wretched. Ready for death, his brain supplied, and he’d shuddered. The only thing he did was destroy that damned Vault suit, changing into some old flannel shirt and jeans he hadn’t owned, or assumed he didn’t, until he found them in his dresser. His old friend had managed to convince him to head out, to search Concord for any other friendlies. Sure enough, there they were; a group of ragtag, exhausted men and women, huddled in the old museum, duking it out with people dressed in gas masks and scraps. He’d managed to smuggle one of the masks, deciding that these strangers didn’t need to see his red-rimmed eyes and runny nose. Shocking to everyone in that situation, Michael managed to reach them and he only got shot once. He’d assumed he was going to die, no two ways about it, not that he would’ve complained. His skills were rusty, the old training coming back slowly. Then, the power armor, that…lizard thing… that had nearly crushed his ribs through the armor, his gasping breaths whiting his vision and causing the adrenaline to take over. He’d escorted them back to what they called Sanctuary, some strangely healthy-looking dog trailing them from the gas station. 

"Man, this place is great,” one of the men had said to him, looking around at the ruins as if they were anything but that; a ghost of what had been.

Michael hadn’t bothered to answer, staring ahead at the cracked pavement where her car used to sit.

“So… what’s your story?” he’d tried again. “Gotta be something special, comin’ to our rescue like that.”

“It’s none of your business,” Michael was snappy with him.

The man was silent. He gave him one last glance before walking away, laser musket slung across his back.

Michael studied him as he walked away. Tan frock coat, weird cowboy hat, even stranger upbeat attitude. He didn’t trust the guy. Preston, or whatever his name was. He seemed a little too friendly, even for the Michael from before. He watched the others too, the same skepticality shrouding him, bringing out a sort of hostile defense mechanism he’d only wielded once in his life. _Oh, if only you could see me now, friend,_ he’d thought. _I don’t know if you’d be proud or disappointed._ They all looked like they’d been around for forever, especially the oldest one. Mother Murphy, something like that. She weirded him out the most. Then those two, the Longs, off putting in every way possible. One hostile, the other pathetic. He didn’t know what their deal was but, he couldn’t bring himself to care at the moment. Lastly, Sturges. He seemed the most useful of the bunch. The handyman, the only one of them who knew his way around a wrench. He didn’t strike Michael as the type to betray the man who had quite literally _just saved their hides_ , but you never knew. He distrusted all of them and was willing to leave his former home with these strangers if it meant getting away from them. All he really wanted to do was crawl into a hole and die but, that could wait, he'd assumed.

 

Afterwards, he’d spent as little time in the new settlement as possible. He looted the place quickly, told Codsworth he was leaving, and hurried over the bridge with the dog in tow. Now, the two stood down the street from the old Drumlin Diner, watching the clouds roll past. He only started moving again when he heard some new battle break out past the horizon, gunshots mixed with screaming on the chilly air. Michael grumbled, turning towards Dogmeat.

“She would’ve loved you,” he muttered. Dogmeat started wagging his tail, bouncing slightly, and Michael smiled and scratched his ears. “Where should we go now?” He pulled up the pip-boy, trying not to think about where it came from too much, and studied the map. He thought it was practically useless; it wasn’t high quality or even telling of where the hell he was.

“So… Cambridge is that way, I guess?” His gaze lifted to the rising sun. “Maybe… I should probably just follow the road.”

Navigation had never been his thing, especially since he wasn’t from Boston. She was the one that knew where everything had been. _She should’ve been the one to survive._ The thought was sour on his tongue, and he swallowed. He unclipped the gas mask from his belt, wiping some dried blood of one of the lenses, and snapped it back on. Then, he started down the road towards Cambridge.


	2. The Oldest and Strongest Emotion of Mankind...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "...is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown." -H.P. Lovecraft

Of course, he couldn’t just wander into town like everything was peachy-keen. That would be too easy.

Instead, he had to practically chase Dogmeat up a hill to some old junkyard and into a radiation-filled building. That was when the mole rats decided to pay the two a visit, gnawing on Michael’s arm and scratching at his chest. Dogmeat had nearly tackled him, lunging for the creatures, and Michael barely managed to scramble over to some trailers nearby.

“Fuckin’... of course,” he sighed, sliding onto the floor. “Nothing’s sacred anymore, huh?”

 Dogmeat jogged into the trailer, blood masking his panting features. Michael couldn’t help but grimace at the sight. Looking away, he saw blood pooling from his forearm, and gasped.

 “Needa…. Stim? Do I even have any?” Michael slung his pack onto the floor between his knees and began hastily digging through it. Minutes passed, and after his bag lay empty and everything was strewn about, he shouted in triumph. “Found ya, little bitch!”

 

A few minutes of quiet passed as Michael’s skin knitted back together. He always had trouble with stimpacks, so he wandered around the yard. Coming across the various bodies made him squirm, and he backed away from every one he found. He had no clue what their deal was, what with the insane hair loss and green skin, and wasn’t sure if he wanted to. The terminal in the shack might’ve been able to give him some insight but… he’d never been any good at hacking, never mind the copious amounts of radiation waste barreled in there.

 “This world sucks, ‘meat. I wanna go home,” Michael commented as they made their way back onto the road. He sighed, pausing to look at the broken highway above him.

 

Home.

A place with green trees and soft grass. Sunny summer days and snowy winter nights. Where the moon hung low and bright and fireflies danced around his feet. Singing creeks and brooks, lakes clean and cool. Where the sun bounced of the morning mist and dew would cling to the window panes. The towers of glass in the city would gleam and sparkle against the noon sky, and the people below would laugh and be happy. When the rain would fall in sheets and make the streetlights ripple and drown. The smell of honeysuckle, of crackling fires, of a fresh meal and clean clothes. Soft fruit and cold vegetables, grown local. Mice skittering through fields and owls calling in the dark of night. Flat stones to toss, the ocean churning with a storm, the smell of salt and sand and everything _good_ …

Home was impossible now. The wreckage, rusted and crumbling into dust, was nothing but a tomb. They held so many memories, so many smiles and jokes, tears and anger. The human mind was buried in the ruins of Boston, highlighted when the moon was bright, and the ghosts could rise to the surface.

 

Michael shivered, phantoms of people disappearing from his vision. Dogmeat was looking at him, curious and, if Michael didn’t know better, concerned. He cursed and began jogging towards Cambridge, determined to get there. Why, he wasn’t sure, but he didn’t care, either. Finally, he came across the first broken buildings of the town, and nearly choked when he saw the rotted creature he’d stepped on. Mutated, decaying, disgusting. He fiddled with the hem of his shirt, biting his lip.

 “Not the Square too,” Michael’s voice shook and his eyes burned. “Maybe we should go, boy… not sure I wanna find out what these are.”

 

But nothing was as easy as turning away and leaving, obviously. It never was.

 

As he began to head away from Cambridge, he heard something slapping the pavement behind him, before feeling a sharp pain in his shoulder. Screaming, he twisted around and came eye to eye with the shambling corpse he’d just stepped on. He couldn’t do anything but stare as Dogmeat managed to pull it down to the ground. The gurgling noises it made was enough to snap Michael into a frenzy. His vision went white and all he could hear was the pinging of his gun shooting the concrete. Eventually, the pinging turned into tearing flesh and wet growls, then something heavy smacking the ground. Michael’s sight came back slowly, and the first thing he saw were his shaking hands and empty pistol. Then he took in the… thing before him bleeding out onto his boots, and he thought back to his military days. He shuddered, and ground seeming to sway beneath his feet.

Suddenly, his Pip-Boy crackled to life, and military jargon blared through into the damp air. He heard more growls and slapping, accompanied by what he assumed was a laser rifle, both horrifically close to him. He couldn't help himself.

 “Fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i actually ended up making a new michael character in-game and almost immediately had to start over bc the game glitched. now i only have to deal with danny sullivan trying to whoop my ass at DC every time i go.
> 
> also sorry this is kinda filler-esqe, i had to force myself to write it, even though i wanted to  
> i'm just not very creative right now lol
> 
> next chapter isn't planned, stay tuned for that i guess

**Author's Note:**

> this is totally not gonna follow my game, since i already finished (for the most part) and am too bitter to start over. im not sure how long it's gonna be either? and it'll probably be slow & long :))
> 
> this is unb-avila-able :))


End file.
